


One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

by runningscissors



Series: Like a Triptych [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Lupin Family (Harry Potter) - Freeform, Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Multi-Era, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Pottermore Compliant, Pre-Relationship, Second War with Voldemort, Sexual Content, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin Friendship, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Welsh Remus Lupin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningscissors/pseuds/runningscissors
Summary: "It’s a hard-fought battle in feigning indifference, one he wages every time Tonks is near, and one he continually finds himself on the losing side of."
Relationships: Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin
Series: Like a Triptych [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726633
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ages ago, and let it languish in my draft folder for years until I discovered it a few months ago and finished writing. Edited to be canon-compliant with Pottermore including direct quotes. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for anyone who is sensitive to concepts of self-loathing, depression including suicidal thoughts, or incest (a very minor reference is made about this). Also general warnings for angst- so much angst.
> 
> Remus is one of my favourite fictional characters, but christ almighty is he depressing to pov write.

The windows rattle in their panes, dust and plaster falling from the ceiling like a sad imitation of snow on his moth-eaten duvet. This decrepit bedroom where in the evening candlelight he can almost swear he sees the wallpaper ripple with movement. 

Home, sweet home. 

Remus has never been precious about his things and has found that sentimentality has never served him any good. His small book collection, stacked and organized by genre, serve a practical use, his clothes patched from necessity rather than a sense of attachment. Brown leather shoes at the end of the bed, laces fraying but still useable. 

The comb on the dresser, lined just so with the small bottle of aftershave (a gift he’s stretched at least seven years); these things he can control as an act of balance to calm the chaos that lies beneath. 

A way to hold himself together against the madness that rips through him and his otherwise tidy life. 

Mr. Fusspot Peter had called him _(and damn you, damn you, Peter. How could you bear to do it)_ as schoolboys and they had all laughed; when the height of Remus stepping over the line had been to leave his bed unmade. Oh, how that had quickly changed.  
  
“For _Circe's sake_ , Moony,” Sirius had barked after Remus had settled into his accommodations at Grimmauld Place, taking a look around the neat but sparsely filled space. “do you still fold your pants as well?” 

+

They hear her before they see her. Her heavy tread and the shrill screams that erupt above their heads. 

Sirius arches a brow, eyes cast to the stairwell as Molly shuffles off to the larder and Remus looks up from the paper. 

_“Oh, dry up, you crusty old cun—”_ a skillet scrubbing itself clatters against the sink, drowning out the rest. Molly makes a noise of disapproval, and Sirius grins into the rim of his mug. 

At the sound of her voice, Remus feels his stomach flutter ever so slightly, burying his face deeper into the paper as she takes the stairs down into the kitchen much faster than is undoubtedly good for her. She blows into the room, her speed catching up with her as she stumbles a bit on the last step. Her hair is short today, peachy in tone and soft, looking like the skin of the fruit.  
  
“Wotcher, lads,” Tonks calls brightly, cheeks colouring when she catches sight of Molly and bashfully slips into the seat kitty-corner to Remus. He looks up just long enough to acknowledge her presence, before turning back to his paper. He’s read the same three sentences a dozen times now.  
  
It’s a hard-fought battle in feigning indifference, one he wages every time Tonks is near, and one he continually finds himself on the losing side of. Remus can’t even remember what he thought of her the first time they met, it’s been so thoroughly eclipsed by what he feels now. The way his stomach fizzes like warm butterbeer when she catches his eye and smiles; her blunt opinions that make him choke down laughter; her hands that fly about her as she talks (in one memorable instance knocking Dedalus’s tea down the front of his robes). 

It’s a realization of small moments adding up. Of her invading his space, pushing his boundaries without a moment’s thought that there would be any in the first place; every small, friendly touch; when she catches his eye with a wink; the way her nose wrinkles when he uses her first name — it just furthers his private ardour for her. He’s far too old to still harbour crushes, especially one of this magnitude. 

That he is so thoroughly unravelled by even the smallest touch, a twisted hidden weakness, is indication enough that he should keep his distance. But he finds he can’t, and so he continues to barter. _Tomorrow. I’ll stop this tomorrow._

Remus watches from the corner of his eye as Tonk takes a long gulp from his mug, dark doe eyes on him over the rim when he looks back up.  


“Would you like your own cup of coffee, Nymphadora?” He asks as she takes another sip, mug cradled in the palm of her hands, “I’m sure we could spare you some.” 

“No, no,” she says, “yours is perfectly fine.” 

Another shot across his bow, and he feels his resolve begin to crack. Few people would choose to sit next to a werewolf, let alone share a mug that they have drunk from. The casual closeness Tonks continually offers up freely, without thought; she keeps surprising him, a contradiction to his long-held notions.

+

Sirius becomes incensed when he hears about what is happening at Hogwarts. He barrages every Order member who has anything to do with the Ministry about information, to no avail.  
  
_“It’s all very hush-hush,”_

_ “Fudge is holding Hogwarts hostage to get at Dumbledore, and Umbridge is clearly his spy.”  _

“She’s a fucking toad faced cow,” Tonks says, mouth full of Molly’s splendid dinner. “She questioned whether I was even human when I had my final cadet review before getting my Auror’s badge. She had no business sitting in, but when she heard what I am, she arranged to be there.” 

Remus silently bristles at that. The suggestion that someone as warm, kind and full of life as Tonks not being human is unthinkable to him. However, he realizes this is a grim concept he and Tonks have in common. He also cannot deny that his heart aches to hear the plight of all his former pupils, to hear that a job he so loved is now being taught by such a vile woman. To squander such an opportunity as teaching is a crime. 

“Don’t encourage them, Sirius,” Molly snaps when Sirius proudly informs them about Harry’s plan of a covert DADA club. The discussion descends into heated bickering. Two stubborn juggernauts unwilling to budge on their positions.  
  
“It’s bloody brilliant, isn’t it?” Sirius says later, once the house is quiet once more. “Prongs would have done the exact same thing.” 

_Yes,_ Remus thinks, however, he’s no longer convinced that’s a good thing. 

\+ 

This year’s October moon is a violent, overwhelming one that leaves its mark on Remus, even with the wolfsbane and he finds himself increasingly grateful to have time away from Grimmauld Place, as he watches the house begin to consume what’s left of Sirius from the inside out. Harry’s letters have become increasingly vague and sporadic, and Sirius spends hours pouring over them, trying to decipher any and all hidden meaning. It’s what they don’t say that worries them both. 

The sound of soft footsteps on the stairs pulls him from his thoughts, Kreacher, no doubt, skulking in the shadows. However, to his surprise, it’s not the house elf, but Tonks, padding into the kitchen in her socks, hair the colour of the Caribbean Sea and rumpled.  
  
“Good morning Nymphadora, I didn’t realize you were here.” 

“Remus,” she says with a yawn, rubbing at her eye, “let’s not quarrel this early in the day; I’ve haven’t had any caffeine yet, so my aim might be off. It’s _Tonks_ , and you know that.” 

He grins, ducking his head so she won’t catch it. 

“I had patrol duty last night, but I was so dead on my feet after dropping off my report I just kipped here.” 

He nods, watching as she stretches, a band of creamy skin exposed with the rise of her shirt. He doesn’t know why the sight of her skin affects him the way it does. The shadowed contour of her toned arms, the hidden strength of her back. He covets the slope of her shoulders, the dip of her collarbone, the long white column of her neck. Even now, he can feel heat crawl up the back of his neck at the memory of her sitting there at the kitchen table, the hard nub of her nipples just visible beneath the thin cotton material of her top.

He hasn’t been with a woman since he was twenty, and Marlene McKinnon relieved him of his virginity one late, drunken night. She’d left with a pat to his shoulder, and they’d parted as friends, a moment of closeness to look upon fondly later. A month later, she and her entire family were killed in their home, and the world had continued to slip into chaos, till it was all over and what had once been his life was now left in ruins. He’d confessed this to Sirius one dreary night, the firewhiskey making him maudlin, and Sirius had laughed in that harsh, barking way.  
  
“She shagged me, too.” Sirius had said, and that had been that.

Remus swallows, clearing his throat. “There’s coffee on the hob if you want any.” 

She spins on her heel, a smile stretched from ear to ear. “Oh, I love you, you brilliant, lovely man,” she sighs, and despite his best efforts, he feels his cheeks heating at her words. 

Shortly after she dashes out, her fingers brushing against Remus’ hand, her touch gentle and fleeting as she passes by, then gone as he watches her rush up the stairs. A quick familial farewell kiss to Sirius’s cheek, as they meet on the stairs. 

“Don’t,” Remus says quickly, at the gleam in Sirius’ eye. 

“Moony, you daft old bugger, if you—” 

“No,” Remus says again, voice firm and unwavering, his jaw clenched tightly. “I’m not having this bloody discussion again. Drop it.” This is ever familiar territory, an affirmation that he is doomed to relive time and time again. No matter how many times his friends had tried to convince him otherwise, he knew better. 

Girls had never been an equation at school. He’d been so desperately grateful to just have friends he’d never dreamed of pushing his luck further. He could never chance anyone knowing the truth, his _furry little problem_ as James had naïvely put it, never really understanding the crushing, all-consuming control the wolf had on every aspect of Remus’s life. The idea of lying to someone he cared about, about something as fundamental as this would never be right. The risk was too high; too many variables for heartache, rejection and pain.  


Every time a girl smiled his way in school, as he observed his friends slog their way through the hazy world of hormones and the elusive, seductive mysteries of the opposite sex. A reminder of what he couldn’t have, that he’d never be normal.  And so he’d stood back and watched the world go on without him. Watched them fall in love, watched the pieces of their lives begin to fall into place. If he’d been lulled into a false sense of acceptance, of hope for the future, it was only the product of war; of fighting something bigger than his own demons, and it had quickly vanished at the first wary glance his way, as Peter had sown the seeds of mistrust around them. 

How could they argue for Remus to let more people in, when at the first sign of trouble his friends had turned on him and what he is? 

“Your life is wasted on you,” Sirius mutters darkly under his breath, glaring at the table.  
  
“Yes,” Remus replies, “I’m aware.” 

+

Remus has always enjoyed mornings. The quiet ritual of water boiling on the hob and that first sip of tea (or the occasional luxury of coffee when he could get it); that stiff ache not quite settled into his bones yet. Most mornings, he sits at the kitchen table and listens as the decaying, old house awaken for the day; the pipes hissing, the walls groaning - threatening to crumble down with the galling wind as autumn fades into damp, cold winter. 

Even as a child, he was an early riser. The soft sound of his mother in the kitchen, the small muggle radio playing like a siren call. A thick slice of bara brith, or a bowl of porridge on cold mornings. Her apron with the little yellow flowers.  


“Good morning, _fy nghariad bach_ ,” she’d say with a kiss to the crown of his head, and no matter what, he always felt better. This quiet time when it was just the two of them, a bright moment in what was a lonely, isolated childhood, despite the love he felt from both his parents. He should visit his dad, it’s been months since he last went. And if nothing else, this wretched old house makes him eternally grateful for the love he always felt growing-up.

Despite it all though, he is thankful to be here, in what is surely the setting of Dante’s first circle of hell with murderous ghouls lurking in the toilets (they gave up banishing it after the fifth time it crawled back) and _merlin_ knows what else hiding in the shadows and dust. 

However, grateful he is to be here, to have a purpose to his life once more, he is sure Sirius sees this place as purgatory. Having escaped the most bottomless abyss of Azkaban, only to circle the drain here, caged in his own childhood torment. Any high-spirited feelings that Sirius had experienced over the summer with the house full to the rafters with Weasleys, and the joy of seeing Harry, has long dried up by November. 

The way Sirius mutters to himself, lashing out at Kreacher with cruel threats and taunts, he may act like his old self at times, but underneath lies a broken man, unable to move on. 

Sirius who's now isolated, outcast from society and desperate for human contact in a way he never was in even the darkest days of his youth; it feels like a cruel reversal from the last war. Sirius on the outside looking in, while Remus finds camaraderie and even genuine satisfaction in his role with the Order. 

But Remus will never say anything, to point this out, even in jest, would be beyond cruel, and he won’t bite the hand that feeds. He’s fully aware he is only able to dedicate so much time to the Order because he doesn’t need to worry about where his next meal will come from thanks to Sirius, whose money keeps them well fed. It is also Sirius’ money that keeps Remus in supply of fresh bandages and pain potions for his monthly change, and for that, he will owe Sirius until the day he dies. 

+

Remus is away on a mission in Blackmoor when Arthur is attacked. He knew this was bound to happen sooner or later again after Sturgis, but for it to be Arthur feels particularly upsetting. Remus is very fond of the Weasley’s, he won’t deny it, and Arthur has become a confidant in many ways, an adult friend in a way he’s never had before. He felt sick reading the events of the night in Dumbledore’s scrolling writing. This is the grave confirmation Dumbledore had privately confessed to him that he feared, perhaps even the worst case possible.

It takes him a tense two days to wrap up and head back to London, and when he returns to Grimmauld Place, he is greeted to an explosion of Christmas decorations so garish and festive it nearly makes the miserable house feel warm and inviting. He can’t help but laugh at the sight of Sirius, almost manic with glee, dashing around making merry for the children. But Remus knows the high Sirius’ on now will only mean the inevitable crash will be all the more painful. However, he won’t begrudge Sirius’s happiness for anything. 

“Sirius, are you in here?” He calls, the drawing-room doors closing with a long groan behind him as he comes to an abrupt stop. Tonks is stood in front of a weathered mirror in the corner, her back to him as she fiddles with something at her ear. She smiles when she catches sight of him in the reflection. 

“Wotcher, Remus,” she calls back, her little pink tongue escaping out the corner of her mouth as she continues to struggle for a final moment before turning around.  
  
She is a vision. Her hair in the short style she seems to favour, a brilliant white tonight to contrast the deep blue and silvery spangles of her dress robes. The skin of her bared shoulders and neck are so pale they glow in the light of the fire in the hearth. He sees now she was fiddling with earrings, little opals that catch the light when she turns. 

“Good evening, Tonks,” he says hoarsely, shifting away from the door. “You look lovely. Going somewhere special?” 

“Oh,” she laughs, hands patting down her robes. He notes how her cheeks flush pleasantly, almost as if she’s pleased by his compliment. “Not really, uh, just the Ministry’s employee Christmas thing. I have to drop off some files for Mad-Eye, so he asked me to swing by here first. Although,” she glances at her wristwatch, “if that old codger doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to be more than fashionably late.” 

As if on queue, the doors swing open again, bumping Remus in the back as Sirius and Moody loudly bound into the room.  
  
“Bugger me,” Sirius says, mouth gaping slightly at the sight of Tonks, then curling into a teasing grin. “You haven’t got yourself all dolled up just for us, have you, darling?” Tonks rolls her eyes, throwing Sirius a two-fingered salute as she reaches for the stack of file folders on the table.  
  
“I expect these back,” she says pointedly to Moody, who merely grunts in response. “Right, well,” she rolls her shoulders back, chin jutted like a proud Black, “I have somewhere _far_ more important to be.” Tonks strides to the door, and Remus notes with amusement that under her dress robes, she’s still wearing her combat boots. 

“Night lads,” she calls over her shoulder, passing Remus with a wink, and then she’s out the door. 

Sirius laughs after her, flinging himself down into one of the sagging armchairs, as Remus tries to smother the heat crawling up his neck. How does a wink make him spiral? It’s utterly pathetic.

“Now that’s a girl a younger me would have liked to catch the slow magic carpet to China with. Isn’t that right, Moony?”Sirius smirks at him that knowing glint in his eye that always annoys Remus to no end. If Sirius thinks he’ll play this little schoolboy game with him in front of Mad-Eye, Tonks’ bloody mentor, he’s got another thing coming.  
  
“I wouldn’t know, Padfoot,” Remus responds dryly, “I’m not genetically predisposed to incest.” 

Sirius’ responding scowl is satisfying, though. 

+

As expected, the happy bubble of the holidays' bursts, leaving Sirius in a truly foul mood. Becoming once more a black cloud that seems to pull anyone who stays in his presence long enough. Remus feels guilty for avoiding Grimmauld Place for as long as he can, practically throwing himself at any and every Order assignment that will take him out of the house, but he can’t bear it. 

He has enough self-loathing of his own, he doesn’t need Sirius’s as well. 

However, this means he also misses out on seeing Tonks. But it’s better this way he thinks. Better to keep busy than to wallow in unrequited love. 

The breakout at Azkaban throws them all. While not necessarily unexpected, no one in the Order, not even Dumbledore, had anticipated for Voldemort to strike this boldly so quickly. Things are ramping up faster than they had during the first war, which makes Remus increasingly nervous. If Voldemort feels this emboldened, then the Ministry is already beyond hope. 

The Order doubles their rounds, working in pairs now for everything. If Remus is secretly pleased to see himself occasionally paired with Tonks on the upcoming roster, he buries that feeling as deep as he can.

It is several days after the breakout before Tonks and Kingsley can attend an emergency meeting to update the Order, rushed off their feet at work, the Aurors office in absolute pandemonium. No one lingers after the meet disperses, and again the house is quiet and empty. 

The drawing room is so still apart from the crackling fire, he barely notices her at first. Feet curled up under her on the old parquet floor, she looks small in a way he’s never seen her.Above her, like an oppressive shadow looming overhangs the Black family tree. 

“Tonks,” he calls softly, not wanting to intrude on her privacy but not wanting to seem like he’s sneaking around her either. She doesn’t turn to look at him, just gently traces her finger over the blast mark where her mother’s face should be. 

“My mum was brought in for questioning today.” Tonks’ voice sounds hollow, bitter. In the meeting, Tonks had told them about the questioning she herself had received by her supervisor. Apparently, her colleagues hadn’t all been aware of the other half of Tonks’ relations. “No one thought to give me the heads up, so I had the nasty shock of finding her in the visitors waiting room with her wand confiscated like a dirty criminal or something. I guess having two direct relatives escape from an inescapable prison makes you a person of interest.” 

Hesitantly Remus steps further into the room and slowly sits down beside her, cringing in embarrassment at the sound of his joints cracking in protest. If Tonks notices, she gives no indication. 

“Is Andromeda all right?”

Remus vaguely remembers Andromeda from Hogwarts, mainly that she had been beautiful with long thick brown hair when Sirius had pointed her out as his favourite cousin. She’d graduated in their second or third year. He remembers her younger sister Narcissa more, a year behind them and an icy, regal beauty. _That’s my future wife if my fucking deranged mother has any say in it_ Sirius had growled, nodding at the pale blonde girl sat at the Slytherin table. Remus and Peter had looked at him like he was mental, surely one doesn’t marry their first cousin. James had just shifted uncomfortably. 

“She’s fine, I think, shaken, but fine. I beefed up their protection wards,” Tonks mumbles, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “It’s me she’s afraid for, but that’s nothing new.” Remus watches as she trails her finger down, where her own omitted face should be, then back up and over to the burnt remains of Sirius’s face. “I always knew about them,” she says now, voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite place, “mum and dad never really hid it from me, probably knew I’d ask too many questions if they tried.” 

Remus smiles to himself at that. No doubt, Tonks was an incredibly inquisitive child, it is a trait that has not faded with age. 

“The grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins I’d never meet,” her eyes briefly flickering to the little face of a small blonde boy as she talks. He’d almost forgotten that Tonks and Draco Malfoy are first cousins. A miniature Lucius in every way, you could easily overlook the fact that Narcissa is his mother; that he didn’t spring from Lucius fully formed like the goddess Athena from Zeus’ forehead. “My long lost family of sadistic blood purists and death eaters. What a fucking laugh that is.” 

She falls quiet, a look of resolve burning in her eyes, and he follows her narrowed gaze to where it falls on the face of Bellatrix Lestrange. He’s struck in that moment - her high cheekbones, the cool determination in her eyes. It’s a look he’s seen Sirius wear many times.  
  
She looks like a Black at this moment. 

“I’m going to get her,” Tonks says calmly, grave in a way he’s never heard from her, not even in the hairiest of moments during missions, of which there has been occasionally. This is not the effervescent, clumsy Tonks who steals sips from his coffee and morphs her nose into animals - this is Tonks the Auror, the dark wizard catcher. 

He will never again underestimate her. 

+

“Do you remember that time,” Sirius crows, cheeks red from drink, chair groaning as he throws his weight forward, “with that bloody little swot Aubrey? _Morgana_ ’ _s tits_ I thought McGonagall was going to have actual kittens right there in her office, and all the while, Aubrey’s head is still swelling like a watermelon.” 

Sirius makes a motion with his hands, and Tonks laughs along with him, butterbeer dripping down her wrist as she sloshes her bottle. She’s stayed, as she often does to Remus’ secret pleasure, after the meeting tonight and Sirius had devolved into waxing about their schoolboy days - the only genuinely safe topic between two old friends that don’t hold too much lingering resentment. Since their chat with Harry and Snape’s ghastly memory, all Sirius wants to do is dredge up the past, caught in an invisible tug between the golden days of their youth and crushing despair of what took the shine off. Remus usually smiles wistfully when Sirius does this, caught up in the swell of memories as they rushed to the surface. The smell of musty old books from the library, ginger sugar quills and Sirius’s barking laugh when James’ gum bubble exploded in his hair. He tries to look on these memories with the same vivid colour Sirius does, but as the years have passed, it’s all gone rather sepia, too much has happened to see them as anything other than bittersweet. 

Remus shakes his head slowly, stomach plummeting to his feet. “I wasn’t there,” he says, white-knuckling his bottle.  
  
“Oh come off it, Moony,” Sirius guffaws, “we got two weeks cleaning out the owlry. How can you forget that fucking ghastly smell? You don’t have to pretend just ‘cos Tonks is here. I’m sure she’s done worse. And anyway, it's not like that bellend didn't serve it.”  
  
Tonks laughs again, swatting at Sirius’ arm. She sobers when she catches the distressed look in Remus’ eye, and quickly takes a sip from her bottle.  
  
“No, Padfoot,” he says again, “that was James.” 

Sirius’ smile falls, eyes suddenly pained and distant. “Right,” he mumbles, “of course. That was James.”

And like that, the evening is over. Sirius slips more and more into his glass until eventually, he shoves off, a poor excuse of checking on Buckbeak in his wake. Remus sighs as he goes, throwing a small apologetic smile to Tonks as he stands and begins clearing the table.  
  
“Does that happen a lot?” Tonks asks, scratching at the label of her bottle with her thumb. 

Remus turns, hip jutted against the counter and runs a hand through his hair. He should really let Molly give him a trim one of these days. “More often than I would like to admit. That mess with Harry and Snape has rattled Sirius.” 

She nods, casting a sad look to the stairs. “It must be devastating to lose someone you’re so close with. But at least he has you.” She throws a small smile his way.

“James was always the glue that held our little motley crew together. The one that the rest of us looked up to in our own different ways. Peter idolized James’ charisma and natural talent, felt sheltered and protected in his shadow. And in James, Sirius had the family he wanted, especially after the Potter’s took him in. Without James, Sirius was always a bit lost. I’m afraid I’m a rather poor consolation prize.” 

Tonks shoves lightly at his shoulder in a playful reprimand, so tactile in everything. It kills him. 

“You’re very hard on yourself, Remus.” She says after a moment, eying him thoughtfully. “It’s absolutely clear to me and everyone else that you keep Sirius from totally unravelling, locked up in this nightmare of a house.” Her hand reaches to rub at the back of his neck, to reassure or comfort, he doesn’t know. “You’re a good mate.” 

Her touch on his neck is more erotic than maybe anything he’s ever experienced. It sends a lightning strike down his spine. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, unsure how to respond at this moment. This would all be so much easier if Tonks wasn’t such a kind heart. 

\+ 

His palms are sweating, anticipation curling in the pit of his stomach. A deep breath, and he knocks on the door before he can once again talk himself out of it. 

_You'd know perfectly well who I've fallen for if you weren't too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice.  
  
_Her voice has been ricocheting around his head for days, his thoughts a fog as he swoops between euphoric happiness and crushing despair. The idea that she might return his affection had never once occurred to him, and now here he is. 

The sound of a bolt lock being undone echoes through the hallway, the hair on the back of his neck raises with the minute crackle of magic as the wards are lifted, and the door swings open. Tonks leans against the jam, pink hair fluffy and curling like it’s just finished air drying, and the wide, jagged neck of her jumper slid to expose a lone pale shoulder. 

“Wotcher, Remus,” she says softly, teeth snagging at the corner of her lip when she quirks her mouth in that little wry grin of hers.  
  
Damn everything to hell, he wants. _He wants._

“Hello Nymphadora,” his voice feels hoarse like he can barely get the words out. He expects her to chastise him, but she doesn’t. Her eyes just seem to darken, and he knows he’s said the wrong thing if he wants to keep this professional. “I have papers for you from Arthur. He didn’t think it appropriate to drop them off, so he asked—”

“I know,” she interjects, “he owled me already. Do you want to come in?” She steps back to allow him through, but he hesitates. There seems something incredibly intimate about stepping into Tonks’ inner world. This seems a precarious situation to place himself in, does it not? But it seems equally foolish to linger on her doorstep, so he follows her in, Tonks’ wards sealing behind him as he closes the door.  
  
As he steps into the room, his first thought is that Tonks’s flat is the very antithesis to his. Everywhere you look, there is _stuff_. In any given space that should have one thing, she seems to have shoved seven or eight. Shelves buckling under the weight of books, and what looks like an extensive record collection, pillows strewn across the floor, knickknacks stuffed in every available space. 

“Tea?” She calls over her shoulder, padding through the open doorway to what must be her kitchen.  
  
“No, I can’t stay.”  
  
Her head pokes back through the doorway, brows furrowed. “Don’t be a prat, Remus. The Order can spare you long enough for a cuppa.” 

He relents, hands clasped behind his back as he walks around her sitting room, careful not to disturb anything, but curiosity overwhelming him. He scans her shelves: the mix of muggle and magic apparent amongst her books and records - a few of which he even had in his youth. On closer inspection, he notes that Tonks’ flat is full of muggle things - a collection of cassettes, a small television in the corner, and a telephone mounted to the far wall. 

How wonderfully ironic that a witch gifted with such rare magical abilities, arguably magic in its purest form, should have one foot so firmly placed in the muggle world. 

He turns to her fireplace, her mantle overflowing with more things. Dried flowers in a vase, a jar of floo powder, old birthday cards: _Happy Birthday Dora, our little bunny. Love dad and mum,_ he notes this with a smile _._ Photographs, both muggle and magical, of smiling faces looking back at him. Christmas dinner with what must be Tonks’ muggle family; a group of friends by the Lake at Hogwarts with their arms looped around each other, scattering in a peel of screams when a tentacle pokes one of them, and Tonks throws her head back in laughter as she morphs her arm back. He chuckles to himself at the sight of it. 

Sirius is right, Tonks is just the kind of girl the marauders would have been mad about. 

If he needed something to sober him, this is it. Tonks’ life is full of love, of people she cares about and who care about her in return. He will bring her nothing but ruin. 

Tonks returns, carefully carrying a teapot and two mugs on a tray to her coffee table, pushing off a pile of old newspapers to make room. 

“Sorry, the milk went off, so I can’t offer you any.” She smiles, clearly pleased with herself for not spilling, and plops down onto her sofa. There’s a strip of gaffa tape on the arm, and he doesn’t know why he’s charmed by it, but he is. 

“Where should I put these papers?” Remus asks, patting at the inner pocket of his coat where they lay. She points to the desk by the window, and he places them there, mindful of putting as much space between them as he can when he sits down. 

Their fingers brush as she hands him his tea, and it almost sloshes over the rim at the speed he pulls back. They haven’t touched since that night. 

_You'd know perfectly well who I've fallen for if you weren't too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice._

He takes a deep gulp to settle himself, wincing at the burn on his throat. The tea tastes of almonds, her favourite he knows, and it’s too much. He can’t be here, in her space, drinking her tea and the clean, citrusy smell of her, like satsuma, fresh from the shower clinging to everything. 

“I should go. Thank you for the tea.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Remus,” she huffs, and then suddenly she’s moving, shifting up and over him, her lips against his; just the softest press at first as he freezes beneath her touch. But it’s more than he can stand, and his heart is racing, drowning out the voice in his head screaming at him to stop. 

_Tomorrow,_ he tells himself, _I’ll stop this tomorrow._

He presses back, mouth opening under hers, and she hums, her tongue searching for the back of his throat now, fingers carding through his hair, and the feel of it has him moaning into her. She’s exquisite, like nothing he’s ever tasted before, and he wants her, he wants like he’s never wanted anything in his entire life. He clutches at her, hands splayed along her back and the soft feel of her jumper.  
  
“Touch me, Remus,” she breathes softly, lips forming the words against his. “I want you to touch me.” 

His twisted hidden weakness made beautiful by her simple request. No one has ever said his name the way she does like she likes the weight of it on her lips. He touches her now, her skin soft and warm under his hands as they pass over her ribs, the divots of her spine, the sweep of her shoulder blades as she rolls them and deepens their kiss. 

Tonks reaches for his hand, and he pulls back, afraid that she’s changed her mind; come to her senses about letting a werewolf paw at her body. He sucks in a breath when instead, she looks at him, her eyes blown wide and so dark, pushes his hand beneath the waistband of her leggings and underwear, guiding him to where she is slick like oil on the pads of his fingers and _so_ much hotter. 

“Dora,” he breathes, the name on his tongue before he can stop it, and the loveliest smile blooms on her lips, her grip on his hand loosening as he moves his fingers under her. _Fucking bloody_ _merlin_ , the feel of her. 

“You’re- I-” his voice is ragged, he can’t get the words out. 

She lets out a little moan, and the sound of it rolls through him like the first moment of his transformations. He feels like he’s about ready to crawl out of his skin, he’s so on edge. The heady pull of her body, her smell so much stronger as he just about pants into the crook of her neck.

“I want you, Remus.” She whispers against the shell of his ear, gasping when his fingers flex against her. Her hands cradle his face, thumbs rubbing along his cheekbones is a sweet caress. “I’ve wanted you for ages. I was worried I’d spooked you the other night, but you drive me bonkers sometimes, I couldn’t help it.” 

_You'd know perfectly well who I've fallen for if you weren't too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice._  


She wants him.  
  
She wants _him._

Oh, God, he can’t. He can’t. She wants him and he _can’t._ She makes him feel like he is almost worthy, and that is such a dangerous feeling. He is not worthy of her, he is not worthy of anyone. 

Tonks goes to push his coat from his shoulders (with this throaty chuckle he wants to hear again and again) because, of course, he still has his _bloody_ coat on. His body tenses up, his heart like a chokehold on his throat as he slowly extracts his hand from its intimate placement, and hers come to a still on his shoulder, brows furrowing as she takes him in. 

“Tonks—” 

“I liked Dora more.” She says with a coquettish grin, hands sliding to fiddle with a button on his coat. “The people I love call me that.” 

“Dor—” it comes out too gravelly, and he has to clear his throat. “ _Tonks,”_ this time firmly. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.” 

“We can, _you_ can.” She presses her hips down into his, and he sucks in a hissed breath through his teeth, hands white-knuckled along the edge of the sofa cushion. The pressure of her is so good, and he’s so feral for it he has to physically restrain himself from rutting up against her in return. 

Remus knows Tonks is much stronger than she looks. If she wanted, she could probably keep him pinned with the muscle of her thighs (a thought that has made him almost wobbly in the knees on previous observations), but she doesn't resist when he prepares to stand, flopping back onto the cushion beside where he sat. 

She stares him down like she’s defying him to flee from her. She won’t even give him the courtesy of making his shameful departure without an audience. He no doubt deserves this, but still, he wishes for her eyes to be anywhere but on him. Her cheeks are flushed, whether from anger, embarrassment or arousal or a heady mixture of all three, he thinks he’d rather not know.

If he was more of a man, he would stay, try to explain himself. But he’s not; he takes the coward’s route every time, and this time will be no different. 

“I’m sorry, Tonks,” he mumbles, turning to make a hasty exit, and it sounds woefully pathetic even to him. 

Later, alone in his bed, he feels his self-loathing like a crushing weight on his chest. No matter how hard he scrubs at his fingers, the smell of her lingers as if the wet heat of her has penetrated his skin.

The torment he deserves for allowing himself to get into this mess; his self-flagellation is her breathy moan like a phantom buzz in his ear. 

_You'd know perfectly well who I've fallen for if you weren't too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice._  


Isn’t he just, indeed. 

\+ 

“I wish you’d come with us, Remus. I think it would do you some good to get out.” Molly says, readjusting the strap of her bag. “You know, Tonks was asking about you the other day. I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you.” 

He declines, _again,_ and Molly shakes her head in pointed disappointment before Apparating on the spot with a sigh. Remus has resolutely avoided Tonks for weeks now. It seems only right he continues to follow this plan of action now. She would be discharged from hospital any day now anyway, what difference would his presence make? He knows she’s in good health and recovering nicely, had made sure of it from Molly, from Mad-Eye, from Kingsley, so what more was there? 

It’s too suspicious for him to visit, he’d argued to Molly. The optics of a known werewolf visiting an Auror were dubious at best. He’s already pushed their luck visiting Arthur without comment, best not chance it. He was more useful getting Grimmauld Place cleared, and anyway, he had to wait for Hagrid to come to get Buckbeak. 

At one time, it might have concerned him how natural the lies and excuses come, but now it’s just like breathing. He can even convince himself when he needs to he’s so effective. 

In the days _after;_ after the loss of Sirius, after Tonks fell, after Voldemort exposed himself and the world was officially plunged back into the chaos, Remus had wavered, overwhelmed with the desire to rush to Tonks’ side and pull her close, and let the ghoul in the bathroom get him in equal measure. Maybe if he waits here long enough, Bellatrix will come and make it an even pair. Then he wouldn’t have to face what lies ahead. This past year, tracking and monitoring the whereabouts of registered werewolves, he had more or less known it was inevitable that the next step would be going underground. 

He had vaguely mentioned his suspicions to Sirius one night, with the grunted response of“Fuck him. Dumbledore’s always been good at getting others to do the dirty work.” At the time, Remus had chalked it up to Sirius’ less than charitable opinion of Dumbledore at that moment, but now he can’t help but agree. 

Dumbledore hadn’t right out asked him to go, but Remus realizes now he’d more or less followed Dumbledore’s crumb trail, deluding himself into believing he’d nobly volunteered. What a load of crock. 

It doesn’t matter now anyway. His last true friend in the world is dead, Voldemort’s gaining more power by the day, and Remus is desperate to put as much distance between himself and Tonks as feasibly possible. He’d been accused of being a spy in the last war, he might as well be one now.  
  
What does he have to lose? 

\+ 

He had wanted to slip away like a thief in the night. He’s not sure how she found out, but she has, and now here they are. Tonks stands calmly as he spills his guts to the night’s cool summer breeze.  
  
_Too old, too poor, too dangerous._

The words hang in the air between them, and he feels heat crawling up his cheeks as she pins him with those dark eyes he loves so, those dark eyes that unnerve him so. 

“I love you, Remus.”  He staggers back, sure for a moment that she has stunned him though her wand still lies shoved down the front pocket of her jeans. All his breath seems to left his body. Of all the things for her to say, he hadn’t expected this. _Sweet muggle christ,_ he wishes it weren’t this. “And I know you love me, too. So if you’re going to break my heart,” she says now, arms crossed tight to her chest, “the least you can do is not insult me. Don’t project that rubbish onto me as if I would ever care about things like that.” 

Only youth, he thinks, allows her to pull off naïveté as if it were courage. He has never admired her so much as he does now, that she can wear her heart on her sleeve so freely for the world to see. He will never deserve her; even if he were unsullied by his shameful condition, he would still not deserve her. 

She face softens as she reaches out for him, but he can’t bear to have her touch him. If she does, he’ll never want her to stop.

“I can’t give you what you want, Tonks.” The words feel like ash in his mouth. Her face crumples then as she succumbs, and turns her head to blink back the tears he knows she’s loathed to shed. 

“So, you would rather walk to your death than admit how you feel?” It’s an accusation more than a question, and one she already knows the answer to. How could she ever love someone like him? Someone who will just stand there and let her cry, let her shoulders tremble as she tries desperately to hold herself together.  
  
“Fine. I won’t beg you to love me,” she snaps, voice thick with emotion. “I have more self-respect than that. But please don’t throw your life away just because you foolishly think it’s not worth anything. Sirius didn’t die for you to off yourself in a crusade of self-indulgent selflessness.” 

Her words sting as if she'd slapped him, poked a wound that is raw and festering. Flayed him open to the bone, and found him wanting; found jelly where his spine should be, and something rotten and oozing inside him. 

“Merlin’s beard, Tonks, don’t hold back.” His anger is rising now. This isn’t about him, or what he wants, nothing ever is. His wants haven’t mattered for most of thirty-five years. History has taught him that when he follows his wants there are always disastrous consequences. “Please continue with the great insight you seem to have gleaned about me and my life as if you have any idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“I won’t hold back,” she yells, staring at him with such a scathing glare that it throws him. “When I hear bollocks, I call it out. And this,” she motions wildly between them, “whatever it is you think you need to do, is absolute bullocks.”

He looks behind her, no doubt to the audience listening in on the other side of the Weasley’s back door. This isn’t how he wanted their parting to go, but it is futile to fight about this. He won’t change his mind, and it’s only more painful the more they drag this out. 

A breath to calm himself, to rein in the control he’s worked so hard to masters all these years. 

“Despite what you might think, I’ve known my mind much longer than you have, and you won’t change it. This is for the best.” He takes her in, dark eyes almost magnified in size with glistening tears, cheeks and nose red, hair rumpled from when she’d run her hands through it in frustration. The sky is tinged in sweeping shades of orange and lavender with the setting sun, and she is beautiful in all her rage. “Goodbye, Nymphadora.” 

She shakes her head, sucking in deep breaths, “Remus, don’t—” but the crack of him Apparating echoes before she can get the rest out.

**Author's Note:**

> Welsh-born Remus was always a head-canon of mine, and I'm very pleased to see that it's real canon now! 
> 
> "fy nghariad bach" - my little love


End file.
